


Before the Lights Come On

by Lafayette1777



Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Angst, Forgive Me, France - Freeform, Gray area, I'm not really sure what I'm trying to do, M/M, Massively Dysfunctional Relationship, Mental Illness, Misunderstandings, Past Relationships, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, break-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(Do you know me?)</em>
  <br/>
  <em>24 hours, and things fall apart.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Lights Come On

**Author's Note:**

> It took me a while to write/post this because I honestly wasn't sure what I was trying to say or how well I was saying it. The gist of it seems to be that Miles is mentally ill and his relationship with Alex isn't really strong enough to endure that - and yet I'm not quite sure that's what I convey. Suicidal behavior is not something to be taken lightly, obviously, and so I wanted to make it clear that Miles's issues transcended just feeling frustrated and rejected by Alex, though that may be the trigger in this story. Anyways, let me know your opinion in the comments.  
> (Also, it seems that in a one-shot I am incapable of writing a happy ending. For those who are curious, though, _Built to Bend_ will have a relatively happy ending, in contrast to this.)

_Morning_

When Alex unlocks his mobile, sitting in the plush lounge of the international terminal of LAX, he thinks it’s at least chuckle-worthy that when Miles picks up his phone in London, he’ll be receiving a call from the past. It’s tomorrow in England already, though still morning - not shockingly, the call goes straight to voicemail. This is not the time of day Miles concerns himself with. Alex can picture the phone vibrating on the bedside table, while Miles sleeps with his limbs splayed and his mouth open, blissfully unaware. 

The image doesn’t amuse him long, though, as his thoughts eventually drain back towards the last few days and the reason for his escape from California. The past is a mess he doesn’t want to sort through. The future, though cleaner from this vantage point, is almost equally unmanageable. 

There’s a girl in the seat across from him whose eyes are darting up every few seconds to contemplate him, like he’s a half forgotten dream. It takes him far too long to fathom why he might be of interest to her, to remind himself who he is and what he does, but even when he flashes her the barest of smiles she doesn’t find the courage to approach. He tries to make out the cover of the book in her lap but he can’t without staring too long. 

His flight begins to board; he focuses his eyes on collecting his carry-all, his passport, his coat. He slicks his hair back with one hand, concentrates on every individual movement and not, for once, the broader picture. He deserves, finally, to have a lack of foresight. 

In line, there’s a tap on his shoulder. When he turns, it’s the girl, eyes inquisitive but hesitant. She’s wearing a red dress that isn’t quite flattering. The book is at her side, and all he can make out on the spine is _Dunthorne_. “I’m sorry, do I know you? You look familiar.”

He just smiles. 

 

_Afternoon_

Miles manages to rouse himself on Alex’s third ring, and they meet for lunch in some tourist district deli with a view of the Eye. He arrives a little past the midday rush and easily secures a secluded booth. Even though Alex is half-dead from jet lag, the grin he summons when he sees Miles coming around the corner in cheetah print and denim is beyond genuine.

“Hullo, stranger. Have we met?” Miles beams cheekily, kissing his cheek and hugging him. Not quite like no time has passed, but close to it. 

They sit down and while Alex inspects his fish and chips, Miles inspects him. There’s something about the way Miles’s gaze is penetrating his skin that leads him to believe that Miles already knows why he’s here. And when the Scouser finally speaks, after they’ve exchanged the necessary small talk and inevitable banter, he betrays his knowledge shamelessly.

“So you broke up with her, yeah? Our Lady of Perpetual Vining?”

Alex keeps his expression carefully neutral when he replies, “It were mutual. But yeah.”

Miles leans back in his seat, ducking his head to comb his hair with his fingers and hide the smile on the edge of his lips. “And so you’re here now,” he murmurs eventually.

“Yes…” Alex breathes hesitantly, leaning forward to try to catch Miles’s gaze, grasp his meaning. But Miles won’t look at him directly, and won’t wipe that half smile off the corner of his mouth. Alex lowers his voice a few decibels and says finally, against his better judgement, “Miles, it’s not what you think.”

He manages to catch Miles’s attention, but the suggestive smile hasn’t escaped yet. “And what do I think?” he says smoothly, almost salaciously. 

“It’s not...I’m not...it’s not about you,” he forces out, feeling dull and inarticulate, the color rising in his cheeks. It comes out harsher than he expects, leaves his mouth hanging open like he’s waiting for the words to return themselves to the silence where they belong. 

Meanwhile, Miles retreats like he’s been burned. 

And then he laughs.

The guffaw is a creature in and of itself; something vile, cruel, unnatural, beyond humorless. Alex used to hold the belief that he could watch Miles laugh indefinitely, appreciate the way his scraggly teeth bare themselves and how his head lolls back so unabashedly. This, though, is something else entirely. 

Miles recovers himself long enough to spit out, “That’s not what you used to say.”

“Of course not,” Alex splutters, indignation filling his voice of it’s own accord. “Things’ve changed. And you act like there isn’t a reason it didn’t work out before.”

“You’ve changed, at least,” Miles growls, turning his head to glare out the window. 

“Christ, what do you expect? Why would I want to be the same person I was when I was twenty-two?” Alex drops his face into one hand, concentrates all emotion into the palm of his hand until he can look up again. His voice is quiet, closer to steady, when he says, “I don’t know what you want from me. Never have.”

“Like it isn’t fucking obvious.” Miles has crossed his arms, fallen back into his chair indignantly. 

“We tried then, after France. And it didn’t end well.”

“You _just_ said things have changed.”

“Not enough.”

Miles looks at the ceiling. When he meets Alex’s eyes again, there’s a decision lurking beneath the ebony of his pupils, and Alex is afraid he already knows what it is. “Fine.”

 

_Evening_

If there’s one thing Alex knows how to do, it’s drink. 

He’s come a long way from the twenty-two year old lightweight that had a few pints and started getting flirty with his best friend. Now, he’s the best drinker he knows, with a liver like James Bond and the coordination to boot. That looseness, though, remains - and it has him picking up his phone from the bar next to him, selecting a familiar contact. He’s nearing toward too lucid for his own good. 

He doesn’t think before he sends, _whatever happened to still being friends?_

And then, _You still know me better than anyone but I’m not sure that’s done any good._

Finally,

_It was stupid of me to come here. I’m sorry._

Minutes pass with no reply whatsoever. He imagines Miles at another bar, drinking himself into a similar oblivion, ignoring the whistle of his phone completely. He has half a mind just to get on another plane and head back to LA; being alone might not do him any good, but he could always spend a few days weeping on Matt’s couch, for old time’s sake. He should’ve known what this would look like, what it would mean. It sounds cruel, even in his own mind, but maybe some part of him wanted to keep the option open. As it is, he realizes, Miles doesn’t deserve this. Eventually, though, there is an answer to Alex’s onslaught of texts. 

_I’m sorry._

 

_Night_

The worst aspect of the scene in front of him is that it’s familiar. The tiles on the bathroom floor, the worn t-shirt Miles is wrapped in, the name on the prescription bottle just out of arm's reach; he’s seen it all before. 

Miles is lying on his side. If he wasn't, he'd be dead. The pool of vomit beside his face proves that.

"I don't wanna die," Miles whispers, eyes still closed, shifting lethargically against the cold tiles. He looks thinner than usual, thanks to the way the t-shirt hangs off him flaccidly, and his exposed legs look pale and insubstantial under the fluorescent light. 

"I know," Alex murmurs, squatting down beside him. Of course he doesn't want to die - that's why he reached for the phone somewhere between swallowing a bottle of pills and being debilitated by said bottle. _Alex_ is alphabetically first, and so here he is.

Alex takes his pulse, but whatever information he gleans from this action he doesn't know what to do with. Miles groans a little. "Don't call an ambulance."

"Miles -"

"M’okay."

He begins to rise, shaking with the effort, eyes glassy. Alex rises with him, arms at the ready for the moment Miles keels over again. Eventually, he does, cascading forward into Alex, resting his chin on his shoulder. Alex leans into the embrace more than he should, letting his arms wrap around Miles sinfully and hold him where he is. 

“It weren’t on purpose,” Miles rasps against his neck. “Not like after France.”

Alex pulls back, meets his eyes as levelly as he can. “Really?”

“Really,” he slurs, blinking one too many times. It’s a lie, and Alex disconnects the two of them further, pulls him toward the bedroom. Miles holds on to his shirtsleeve and trips along after him. Neither of them turns on the overhead light - outside, the London night is enough to cast a strip of orange onto the carpet to see by. 

He’d asked him _why_ after the first time, the simplest of questions, but Miles had misunderstood, and launched into an explanation as to how the ceiling fan had been invading his peripheral vision lately but the pills seemed more humane. And he hadn’t been taking the recommended dose in a while, anyways, so he had plenty left. Within a minute he had Alex agreeing that he was fine, it wouldn’t happen again, they’d needn’t ever speak of it. So Alex solved the problem by moving to LA and not speaking to him for a year. 

He doesn’t ask any questions this time. 

“I’m glad it’s you,” Miles stutters behind him.

“You always say that.”

Miles collides with the bed, wiggles pathetically until he’s on his back, already fading back into unconsciousness. 

“Not on your back, love,” Alex murmurs, beginning to roll him over. 

Miles, limp in Alex’s grip, speaks with his eyes closed. His words are a little more lucid; for a moment, Alex entertains the idea that this too shall pass. “Worried I’ll choke on me own sick?” He smiles crookedly, then, like it’s a joke. 

“Yes,” Alex deadpans, bringing up the duvet. Miles is still shaking, but there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his hairline. “I’m calling an ambulance, Mi.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” 

“Fine then. Get the fuck out.”

“Miles.”

“Why are you even here? I called Tinna.”

“No, you didn’t,” Alex sighs.

Things really haven’t changed at all. 

“Fuck off.” Miles begins to turn onto his back again, and Alex leans forward to prevent him, but all he gets is a glancing blow to the cheekbone. 

“Fucking hell, Miles,” he growls, stepping backwards and into the light of the window. He catches sight of Miles’s face in full color as headlights pass on the street to their right, but sees only a brow knitted in pain. 

“Fuck off,” Miles repeats, weaker, voice giving out before it gains any momentum. “Do I even know you?” he grunts, face half-obscured by pillow.

“Fine.”

He turns to leave, waits for Miles to call him back. Waits all the way until he’s at the front door of the flat, in the hallway, in front of the lift. He’s still waiting when he makes it to the street and takes out his mobile to dial 999. 

He doesn’t drive home immediately, but smokes until his expression is a little less damp and a little less crooked, until his hands are steady again. When he finally starts the engine, the sunrise is there to greet him.


End file.
